


In Place

by Filigree



Series: Stark 2.0 [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers OT6, Hidden Firefly Reference, Multi, Polyamory, Tony!Whump, Tony/Avengers - Freeform, alternate reality Tony, mascara alert, trigger warnings for suicidal ideations, trigger warnings for veiled references to past rape and abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigree/pseuds/Filigree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dead man told Tony Stark: ‘Don’t be me. Be you, taking over for me.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetNsimple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Put That Puzzle Piece Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143510) by [sweetNsimple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple). 



> Sort of a companion piece to sweetNsimple’s lovely and sad ‘Put That Puzzle Piece Back’. Needs to be read after it, or most of this won’t make sense. Fair warning: 'Puzzle' made me cry like a baby, so I had to add to the general whumpage.
> 
> Any mistakes made are my own, and I appreciate feedback and critique.
> 
> I don't own any Marvel characters, and I'm not making money off these silly stories, yadda yadda yadda, you know the drill.

For seven very long heartbeats, Tony Stark could not remember the last two weeks.

He was naked and not alone, which was immediately suspect. He’d never let himself remain that vulnerable while sleeping. All the old rage, hurt, and snarling defiance crested inside him, locked down to silence until he could figure out the latest disaster. Was it S.H.I.E.L.D.? Obie’s latest attempt at gaslighting or blackmail? Victor’s idea of courtship?

Tony was warm and comfortable, at the center of a pile of other naked, sleeping bodies. He ached softly in all the right places. Well-used but not hurt. He – good god, he was sticky in all the right places, too. So were his bedmates, their skins musky with sex and satisfaction.

He was cuddled into a vast, beautifully sculpted male chest, his head tucked between a man’s neck and shoulder. A woman’s lithe lush body spooned him from behind, her right thigh draped possessively over his legs. Tony heard at least three other distinct breathing patterns in his immediate vicinity.

No one he knew cared enough to get that close for purely benevolent reasons, not after a lifetime of him being such a monumental fuck-up. Even the Genetics Registry, which would normally be drafting and engineering his genes to spread his intellect across future populations – wasn’t. Tony Stark was Not Recommended for a lot of things.

He wasn't rich enough anymore to buy companionship. Howard’s dwindling trust funds bought him merely tolerance, as a S.H.I.E.L.D. civilian contractor. When that money was gone, Tony knew he’d have to beg Obie for some of Stark Industries’ money in exchange for fixing some loathsome weapons project or three.

Or go back on the streets until Obie or Fury tracked him down again as a ‘national resource’. The streets were slightly better than the threat of Obie’s hospitals and group homes: _‘Now, Tony, we both know you aren’t suited to an unstructured life.’ ‘Now, Obie, we both know you had to keep the Stark name on your company, because shares dropped too much when you tried to call it Stane Industries. And you need me sober when you want publicity from a real Stark.’ ‘Tony, Tony, Tony, you really need to think before you speak…’_

Indentured servitude to S.H.I.E.L.D. was slightly better than being homeless. Tony could be a glorified mechanic anywhere they’d let him pick up a wrench and a welding torch.

Hell, if it came down to it he could always fulfill every low expectation, and offer his mind and body to Victor Von Doom. Victor was a creep, but at least he seemed to value Tony…

#

The last two weeks came back in a swarm of startled memories.

A nano-rift had opened in Central Park, under prodding from some Latverian tech way too advanced to be Victor’s. Ignoring Tony’s more and more vocal protests, S.H.I.E.L.D. engineers had been too stupid to monitor the rift properly, let alone control it. It had been suspiciously stable for hours. Tony remembered the rift suddenly expanding when he came too close to it. A bellow from the Major: ‘Stark, I told you, you’re not authorized to be here!’

Then the damn Major lost his grip on Tony’s shoulder, and fell backward through the reality tear, with the most absolutely priceless confusion on his perfect face.

Tony remembered his first thought: Good riddance, you prick. Then his next: Oh, shit, they’ll find a way to blame me for losing their precious Major America. I gotta haul his perfect ass back, or Fury will sign me over to Obie for sure.

And so he’d leapt after the Major, into a familiar, new, frightening, and wonderful universe.

The Avengers were here, too. Sort of. Instead of Fury’s aloof and lethal attack dogs, they were a happy, bickering family of superheroes. A powerful, influential group marriage like Tony had seen and envied in his own universe, but never had a chance to attain. They lived in the top floors of an absurdly gorgeous skyscraper that Tony’s counterpart had built.

Here, Tony’s otherself had been a genius allowed to flourish: multi-billionaire, inventor, hero, cultural icon. Happily-married man, with the most compelling mates any man could dream of.

And very, very dead. Tony saw how his otherself’s loss had shattered these Avengers. When they first glimpsed him beyond Major America’s shoulder, their faces had lit in shock, then unalloyed welcome.

They made a place for him. Cosseted him, fed him, praised him, let him run free in his otherself’s workshops and systems. Trusted him. He could have twisted that trust, just as he’d often lashed out at fake considerations or paltry rewards from Obie or S.H.I.E.L.D.

He didn’t.

JARVIS was still active here. The bots were still functional. Tony’s otherself had even found a way around the palladium problem with the arc reactor, and kindly left notes on how to synthesize the new element that might save Tony a second time around. 

He knew the clock was ticking. The dark-silver vein traceries the other Tony had described weren’t showing yet, but he knew the onset symptoms. In his world, the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors had called it psychosomatic. He guessed he had twelve more weeks to live. Less if he pushed the output on the arc reactor in his chest.

Tony loved this new universe.

Tony hated it for existing.

It wasn’t real. Every kindness shown by these Avengers sparked more disapproval from the Major. Only the barest need to be polite kept the Major from beating every new joy right back out of Tony Stark. Because everyone sane knew that Stark didn't need encouragment to be a real danger to himself and others.

Except these Avengers. Except this world.

Tony had known what was happening last night, when Steve – not Major America, no, these two men looked alike but they couldn’t be more different – coaxed him back down to the otherself’s main workshop. Steve Rogers was courting a new Tony Stark for their family.

Touch-starved, delighted, Tony let it happen, let it spread beyond him and Steve to Bruce, and later to Clint, Natasha, and Thor.

What was it like, to be loved after a lifetime of waiting, hurting, hiding, then despairing? It was rain after drought. A hot shower after being six months homeless. As good as building something beautiful and durable out of parts no one else wanted.

It wasn’t his life.

#

Fully awake, Tony sat up and eased away from the sleeping Avengers, knowing the instant Steve and Natasha woke. They did not speak. Steve’s face asked a question.

Tony made himself smile sweetly, jerked his chin at the suite’s outer door. “Shower”, he muttered.

Natasha reached up. Her fingers carded through Tony’s short hair, ending at the nape of his neck, but she didn’t pull him back down again.

Steve grinned, pointing one finger at another door that surely led to a bathroom as lavish – and sized for six – as the rest of the penthouse suite.

Moment of truth. Tony knew if he went in there, Steve and Natasha would follow. And it would be so good all over again, which just meant it would hurt worse later.

He shook his head, still smiling to mask the ache in his throat and chest. He managed to avoid waking anyone else, slipped into his threadbare clothes (to echoes of the Major’s ‘Never let me catch you out of your contractor’s uniform again, Stark’), and slipped out into the hallway.

Steve and Natasha didn’t follow.

Tony was in the elevator before a cold feeling in his gut warned him away from his own guest room on the Major’s temporary floor. The Major had a nose like a bloodhound. He’d know what Tony did, whoring himself out to these softhearted Avengers. There might not be visible bruises later, but Major America could deal pain without leaving marks.

“JARVIS?” Tony whispered.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Is there a shower in the workshop I was in last night?”

“Yes, Sir. It is kept fully stocked for domestic usage, up to chemical and radioactive decontaminant standards.”

“Take me to the workshop, please. And lock the door after me?”

“It would be my pleasure, Sir.”

Even the workshop shower had gray-golden granite tiles and cast bronze fittings in sleekly modern designs. The liquid soap held faint scents of cedar and citrus – a scent he’d caught from the others’ skins and hair last night. Tony luxuriated in endless hot water, and dark gray towels of some rich, thick fiber that wicked differently than cotton. The tags read ‘spun bamboo.’

An expensive and perfectly balanced magnetic induction razor waited on a shelf backed with a non-fogging mirror. Tony’s facial hair had been his last affectation of wealth and defiance, the neat and intricate sculpting showing off his jawline and lips. Obie had had it shaved off more than once. Fury had regularly threatened to burn it off.

When Tony left the steaming sanctum of the shower, he found fresh clothing laid out on a low bamboo table: dark gray microfiber boxers, black socks with gripping soles, black jeans, a black cotton T-Shirt with some band logo he’d never heard of, and a dark red, long-sleeved microfiber undershirt softer than silk. Tony nearly wept when Dummy – so like his Dummy! - beeped excitedly and nudged the little table forward.

Even after two weeks of these Avengers slyly feeding him every chance they got, the otherself’s clothing was loose over Tony’s shoulders and hips. He hugged the soft cloth to him, and looked around the incredible workshop. Toys and tools of genius, most of them crafted by an absent master who must have hidden his inner doubts, if he’d even had them.

Tired again, Tony considered the relatively large couch tucked away from the more active manufacturing zones. Too open. Too exposed.

These bots had charging stations that jutted out six feet into the main floor, separated by waist-high walls. Butterfingers’ station was closest to one corner, but there was a narrow two-foot gap perfect for Tony’s needs. He ignored the blanket folded on the couch – not wise to get too comfortable, after all. When he wedged himself into the gap, Butterfingers chirped softly, and brushed a servo arm delicately over his drying hair.

The room dimmed. It was cold, but no worse than any other server farm or factory he’d known. Tony closed his eyes, less sleepy than stunned. Processing the last two weeks.

#

These Avengers would solve the problem of getting him and the Major back home. For one thing, they listened to Tony’s ideas. They wanted to keep him here. But he wasn’t a hero like their Tony; he was a broken mess more likely to fall apart the moment people really needed him. It wouldn’t be fair to these Avengers if he stayed.

Tony decided to return with the Major. He was done with S.H.I.E.L.D. Done with all of them. He’d steal enough money to skirt the state checkpoints, dodge Obie and Fury and Victor, and find himself some out of the way place to hole up. If he drained the reactor’s power hard enough, often enough, the palladium should reach critical levels long before twelve weeks.

Tony felt another stabbing twinge in his chest, grimaced, and raised a hand to rub at the now-hidden reactor. He’d only have to bear it for a few more weeks. By now, he actively hoped there wasn’t an afterlife. With his luck, it would be as much a debacle as existence had been.

“Sir? Sir?”

He was so intent on his plans that he tuned out JARVIS until the AI caught his attention with a shrill feedback squeal through every workshop speaker.

“Huh?”

“Sir, you have an urgent message left by the first Anthony Edward Stark. I strongly suggest you watch it.”

Tony looked up, and his jaw dropped.

Cascades of blue-white equations and graphs sprang to life above the largest workstation. The beautiful holographic displays Tony and Bruce had danced through yesterday now consolidated into a single life-size floating screen.

Tony saw his otherself: confident as a king in greasy casual clothing, dirt and oil caking his longer curling hair and neatly-bearded face, a manic grin flashing his white teeth in the gloom.

“Iron Man, calling Iron Man. So, hey you, ah, me. You’re going to have questions, tiger. I would. But just shut the fuck up and hear me out, otherwise you’ll confuse JARVIS enough he might lose his place and have to start over. And this is something I really only want to say once. And you probably only want to hear it once.

We’re the Avengers. We get into some fucked-up crazy missions that are homegrown Earth, all the way, not to mention magic and pocket dimensions and whatever the hell Dr. Strange and Reed Richards are up to on any given day. So the odds are not unlikely that someday another Tony Stark from another universe might stumble into this one. If you’re listening to this message, and I’m not bullshitting you over a bottle of Scotch, well, then I’m absent, incapacitated, or dead.

If I’m not there, get me back, however you can. If I’m dead…ah, hell, if I’m dead, I have a job for you. Stay here. Take over for me. You might have just as amazing a life on your side as I do here, so I won’t beg. But…if your life isn’t so good? Give mine a try.

See, there are these five amazing people I’ve gotten hitched to, and they’ll break apart without some form of Tony Stark holding them upright, buncha sissies.

I know you’re a genius. I hope you went through fire like I did, and became a good person…or that your childhood was better than mine and you always were a big damn hero. If you’re a good man, this makes it easier on both of us.

If you’re bad, if you’re a jackass who never grew up, or if Obie managed to twist you…well, I have backup plans in place for that, too. Just so you know, Obie’s dead on this side. Pep and I killed him, after he tried to kill me and steal the arc reactor. He’s the one who tried to have me murdered in Afghanistan. I think he may have killed my parents. He – never mind what else he tried to do, that’s done and over, years ago.

Yeah, the reactor. If you have the reactor, if you’re still running on palladium, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM IT RIGHT NOW, you idiot. I have spares with the new element core. Dummy and JARVIS can get you one. There’s only so many ways you and Yinsen could have built the original housing in your chest, so there’s a strong chance the new one will slot right in. If not, you’re in the best damn shop in America, maybe the world. Start using it, tiger.

Don’t let S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council dick you around. You’re Anthony Edward Stark, Mark II, if you wanna be. You could be married to five of the most goddamn incredible people on this planet, and best friends with about eight or ten more. Pep runs SI on this side, but you’ll keep a hand in R&D and make sure everyone plays nice-nice with new tech. You will have paparazzi glued to you, I’m afraid – but if you’re kinder than I was, they might eat it up. Pep and SI would love the positive PR.

I don’t know if you had ‘Star Wars’ on your side, so you might not get it when I say, ‘Obi Wan, you’re my only hope.’

You’re my best contingency plan to keep my world, my universe, and my people safe. Don’t be me. Be you, taking over for me. You’ll have help, tiger. Don’t be too afraid or too arrogant to ask for it. ‘Cause these Avengers, my Avengers? They’ve already seen me at my worst. Be good to ‘em, and they’ll be creampuffs. Bruce does this thing with his…never mind.

Whatever you decide, do it for you. I’m just giving you my keys to the timeshare. Peace out, and all that shit. This is Iron Man, handing off to Iron Man.”

#

The holographic screen flickered out.

Tony stared at the dim air where his brilliant, charismatic otherself had been a moment ago.

Dummy chirped, carefully skirting around a corner of the big workstation. The bot held out a flat tray, glittering with metal tools and a half-familiar cylinder glowing a slightly different shade of blue.

“A new reactor,” Tony whispered. On his side, he’d briefly considered the idea, but hadn’t had access to the technology needed to synthesize the theoretical element. And he hadn’t wanted to leave a paper or electronic trail for Fury or Obie to misuse.

But Obie was dead here, and Fury almost a different man.

“Sir?” JARVIS asked. “While I appreciate the urgency of the past Sir’s wishes, I suggest you wait to switch out the reactor until Master Bruce and Master Steven arrive, for safety’s sake? They are in the access elevator now. Shall I open the workroom doors, Sir?”

Tony felt his jaw ache in an unfamiliar way. It was a big, fierce, uncompromising grin, he realized, learned just now from his otherself.

“Please do, JARVIS.”

The Major was going back alone. Tony Stark was already home, and he had work to do.


End file.
